Letter From Milo: Gambling Men

I used to enjoy gambling. Poker, craps, sports betting, the horses - I played them all. You'll notice I didn't say I was a good gambler. The sad fact is that I lost a lot more money than I won.

There was a group of us who hung out at a tavern on Lincoln Avenue near Dickens Street and we liked to shoot craps. The group consisted of my good friend Bruce, Dino, Wayne, Carlos, Mike the Drag, Brooks, Dirty George, Roy, Irwin, and Pope Carl, a truly devout man who muttered a prayer every time he tossed the dice.

Hail Mary, full of grace, first the six and then the ace.

Once or twice a week, after a few hours of social drinking, we'd all head out to the gangway behind the bar and get a crap game going. I remember one time when Wayne made seven straight passes. What are the odds of that happening?

One idiot, we'll call him Milo to save him any embarrassment, bet against Wayne every time. When Wayne made the seventh pass, busting Milo in the process, Milo angrily hurled his beer bottle across the alley. Living across the alley at the time was the great film critic Roger Ebert. The bottle landed on Ebert's deck and shattered noisily. It may have even broken a window. We didn't stick around to find out.

We also used to have some hellacious all-night poker games. Except for Bruce, it was a different cast of characters than the crapshooting crowd. There were three or four attorneys, Pat the Math Professor, Joe, who preferred to be called Monte when he played poker, and Bruce's Uncle Morrie, who was in his 80s at the time and recently passed away at the biblical age of 101.

The attorneys were a pain in the ass. Whenever a question of rules or procedure came up, each attorney had to have his say, interrupting the game for ten minutes at a time. The attorneys argued, brought up precedent, cross-examined, rebutted, and made closing arguments. I'm surprised they didn't try to call witnesses. I suspect that the copious amounts of booze and reefer might also have had something to do with the lengthy delays. To this day I refuse to play in a poker game that includes more than two lawyers.

Pat the Math Professor was a degenerate gambler. He played in as many as five poker games a week. He claimed it was his wife's fault. He hated her and she despised him. He said the only reason he played so much poker was that he couldn't stand being around his wife.

"I don't even know why I gamble," he once told the table. "I've got the worst luck in the world. I fucked my wife twice in 10 years and she got pregnant both times. What are the odds of that happening?"

The attorneys immediately began debating the odds.

My favorite gambling activity, however, was betting on thoroughbred race horses. Bruce and I and our friend Dino spent a lot of time at the local ovals, Arlington Park, Hawthorne and Sportsman's. Bruce would usually drive. He always drove clunkers that would be eyesores at demolition derbies. I doubt he ever paid more than $200 for one of his rust buckets. Still, somehow those cars always got us to the track. Getting back was another matter.

"Damn, Bruce, you got any gas in this thing?

"Plenty of gas, my man."

"Looks like it's on empty to me."

"Don't worry about it. The gauge is just fucked up."

(The car finally starts on the eighth or ninth try.)

"What's that rattle? It doesn't sound good."

"Nothing to worry about. It always does that."

"Jesus fucking Christ! What was that?"

"Backfire, I think."

"You oil light is on."

"Fuck it. Pass me the joint."

My luck wasn't much better at the track than in my other gambling ventures. But every once on a while I'd get hot and win a few hundred dollars. That's the thing about gamblers. They tend to forget their losses fairly quickly but they remember their wins forever.

I recall one day at the track vividly. Both Bruce and I won a decent amount of money and were heading back to the city to celebrate. Bruce's dog, Rocky, was in the car with us. We were on the Eisenhower, a few miles from downtown, when there was a loud explosion and smoke began billowing from under the hood of his clunker. I looked back and saw that most of the engine was scattered across across the highway behind us. Bruce managed to wrestle the car to the side of the road. Acting quickly, Bruce grabbed all of his documentation out of the glove compartment, then went to the back of the car and tore off the license plate. We abandoned the car to the mercy of the towing companies and wreckers and started walking toward the exit ramp. We walked about 25 yards when a cab pulled up. The driver rolled down his window and said, "You boys look like you need a ride. The dog does, too."

Later, in a bar on Lincoln Avenue, I said to Bruce, "Good thing that cab came along."

"Yeah," he replied. "What are the odds of that happening?"

Want more gambling literature from the fecund pen of Milo Samardzija? Buy his book, "Schoolboy," right now. Hurry, you fool!

Benny Jay: The Godfather

I get "The Godfather" from the video store. Been planning to watch it for weeks. Hear so many guys talk about it. They quote the lines and relive the scenes -- obviously, it's influenced their lives. I play along -- like it's influenced my life too. But the fact is I only saw it once, when it came out 37 years ago. I don't remember much about what happens.

I get it the night my wife's out with some friends. She's not crazy about watching movies she's seen before -- even if she's only seen them once many years ago. Me? I can watch the great ones over and over over....

So it's just me and my younger daughter and after awhile, as much as she likes it, she goes to bed because she has to get up really early. I should go to bed too, but I can't stop watching. As the movie goes on, the scenes, the characters, the dialogue -- they all come back. Sonny Corleone beating the crap out of his brother in law, Vito Corleone playing with his grandson in the tomato garden, Michael Corleone, cold-blooded and calculating, renouncing his belief in Satan at his godson's baptism, while his henchmen gun down gangsters all over town.

I think of Bubba -- this skinny, little black kid I knew in high school. One day in the locker room after gym, I overheard him tell his buddies about how he'd been ballin' this girl -- Didn't even bother undressing, had her up against the door, and was banging her so hard the door slammed against the wall, while she was calling out his name: "Oh, Bubba, Bubba, Bubba...."

I was 16 at the time. I wasn't even kissing girls -- much less banging them against the wall -- even though I was dreaming about girls day and night. When I heard Bubba tell that story, I was beyond jealous. I was thinking: why can't that stuff happen to me?

And now all these years later I'm watching "The Godfather" and I realize -- Bubba made it up. He never banged no babe! He stole that story from the scene where Sonny -- fully clothed -- is banging this girl and the door's slamming against the wall, and she's calling out his name: "Sonny, Sonny, Sonny."

And to think I fell for it. To think I was actually jealous of Bubba. The little twerp -- probably wasn't getting any more than me.

The movie ends and the credits roll and I sit in the dark and stare at the screen. I think about Cichowicz -- better known as Chicken Tit, and later just The Tit -- this chubby, baby-faced boy who sat in front of me in German class. Funny as hell, really good with imitations. He worked as an usher at the Valencia Theater on Sherman Street in downtown Evanston. He saw the movies so many times, he knew the lines by heart. He'd entertain me in study hall -- when we were supposed to be studying German -- doing bits from "The Godfather," "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," "Dirty Harry," "Shaft"....

I remember standing in the alley behind the Valencia. The Tit opened the door. He was wearing his usher's uniform -- this red sports coat that was about one size too small. Made him look like a Chipmunk. He had a flashlight and he led me down the aisle to my seat. There was hardly anyone in the theater cause it was a matinee. I don't know why I bothered sneaking in. It couldn't have cost more than $1.50 to see a movie. I guess it was just the thing to do. Anyway, that's when I saw "The Godfather."

After high school, The Tit went his way and I went mine. Last I saw of him was at Jonny's funeral. Damn, Jonny. One of my best friends in high school. It's been seven years since he died. Cancer.

I go to the computer and read Roger Ebert's original review of "The Godfather," from January 1, 1972. It's the same old thing, once I get on the Internet, I can't get off. I start going from this thing to that. I wind up reading stories about John Cazale, the actor who played Fredo. I love Fredo -- he's my favorite Corleone. The runt of the family. He could never match up to Michael or Sonny. I can relate. So, I bet, can Bubba -- and The Tit.

Cazale was in "The Deer Hunter" and "Dog Day Afternoon." He died young -- cancer. Just like Jonny. After his funeral, all of his actor friends and peers -- Pacino, DeNiro, Gene Hackman, Meryl Streep -- said he was the best.

Damn, it's quiet in the house. Every one's asleep. No one's up. Except for me -- and the ghosts....